The Faucet

Flying utensils making high pitched sound as they hit against the wall . The timbre and rhythm make a great fugue. "When was the last time you brushed ??" Look at you, you detestable barn rat . I hate you and more so I hate myself for staying here in this rathole with you." Lung power looks rather good. Limb power ; impeccable, hand to eye coordination; brilliant, as the utensils land where HE was, it quite, was the task to duck the projectiles.


And him, an actual barn rat watches the flying utensils in slow motion, it's the sound that he can't escape. Now he has to take a bath . What a shame. All that un-cleanliness will go to waste. How disgusting it is to touch water. He shudders on the thought of it.

Here comes his prized cup , forming a perfect parabolla in the air as he watches it in slow motion, it's last moments of being in A particular form condusive of being drunk from.

She has to understand , he thinks in his mind. why doesnt she ? I think its the smell maybe.

The cup falls and breaks, he looks at it's demise, like how a dog would when the bone he's been haggling for, has just been snatched away by a bigger dog.

Lazy, reticent, as if nothing has happned, he looks around the house. it looks quite in shambles. He likes the new broken modernistic design that she has just given it.

He must call him friends over for drinks so that they admire its interiors.

But the bath has to come . WATER!!. It breaks his little sojourn into his dream world. The faucet which he hardly touches is not looking at him, smiling devilishily. "YOU ARE MINE" he loudly roars. "AND YOU RE GOING TO TAKE WHATEVER COMES OUT OF ME" he proclaims " YOU 'LL TAKE IT IN YOUR MOUTH, YOUR FACE, YOU ASS, YOU COCK" the faucet looks like he's won a war and is now ordering the losing side his will.

He gets up accepting his fate. he's apologetic to all the bacteria on his skin. He asks for forgiveness from them. Now all the microcosms on him will have to resettle somewhere else. Darn!! what a waste.

She's nowhere to be seen, it seems .. he checks out like a mischevious kid checking out for her mom from the side of the door, very stealthily ... quietly lest some other projectile comes his way.

He raises his head, very slowly , with the slowness of a sloth bear but with the consciousness a fox.

BANG

Another cup, this time perfectly hitting the middle of the forehead and he comes crashing down to the ground.

lung power; check

limb power ; check

hand to eye coordinaton ; check

eye to hand coordination; check

responce time; double-check

all systems in place.

I love my women .

The Prostitute

(INITIATE, CLAMP, RELEASE, FORWARD)

(INITIATE, CLAMP, RELEASE, FORWARD)

(INITIATE, CLAMP, RELEASE, FORWARD)

Conveyer belt with it's constant pace; on it, blocks with potruding penises. Deep, lone yoni at the other end conjoining with it's signature bolt action®; caliberated per micro second, it doesn't let go anything waste. Embark; mount?, conjoin, discharge , release.

The sound of it, serenating with it's infrasonic drone penetrates the ear; implode. It's not over yet. The tethers were fixed firmly in place. The legs clamped open; take it, assume an attitude. Sand being the only lubricator, the friction is too great. Hold, clasp; try to enjoy it.

"We are cruising at the altitude of 35000 feet, p.. l ..e.. a.. s.. e.. t-t-t-r-r-y ... as the voices outside, the volumne of it keeps diminishing. Vaccum that breaches the words, the neurons; their ability to grasp their shape and structure fade into a glum nothingness. The neurons love it. They like to be lazy too.

Conveyer belt was never about personalized attention; the meter is running. Fringe living; reprise. Sun kissed ; her face. Don't tell her, she won't understand it. The slingshot has been released. One thrust; final. Five seconds to gather the bits of porous thoughts. Before, middle, after.

Let there be another catastrophy, humour needed .Disembarking from the vagina, rheum that came out, oozing. Make a face pack out of it. Apply it gently, over the face. It contains anti-toxins, they will make the skin glow. And if it doesnt work. Relax, lie down. You can still get you money back .

yeuk

At the end of the day; walking, sweat. Keeps pace abreast ; still . Did droplets condensce on the inner lining of the feet ? Hungry; walking, faith. Eats whats not for the stomach. swollen placentas lying around. decidious wills decaying amidst. fiend of a subtle kind approaches the corner of the candyshop.


"Come to my store, eat the goodies" says the fiend; "friend" ? "Replenish and move on, there is no catch."

Dilating cornea, flickering ; haste. anal cavity sickled, intestines lurking; stomach next. Dipping down to lick the dust, turgid chest exasperates. Will not the night provide the balm ? Coil of form that which body was, rubbing the chest; through knees; gumption.

Tholed with guts and pencil framed ; vicar , grit, passion, zeal.

R misses the friend ; fiend. no words no language; human contruction; obdurate. horizon tenebrocates feebly; stealth. The path is long and compromise a pitstop. He does not own the night.

"Sure but first let me see your menu."

Hummingbird

Brilllaince conjoined in filigree so meagre, subliminal as the sound transports the body to a space, vaccumized ; where, amidst the darkness the only thing radiating light were the fine fillaments of the cotton seeds resting silenly on her body.

And they are not there without a reason. The static in her attracts them, wanting to to make love with her. She, despondent of any worldy attire seeked just about the surrealism that the cotten seeds , flairled with their fine hair like tentecles, offer.

The sound now turns from its nothingness to an earth shattering drone of a conch. The vaccum itself evaporates as the river fast approaches. The floodgates open and eddies, violent, captivating, terrifying, engulf her. She lies still, still; wanting to take in as much as she can. Opening herself, she tries to nullify the obduracy inside her. How come she inspires but never gets inspired ??

And the window opens, armour in the chink where diasies bloom, and sonnets, worth all their weight in gold abound, dime a douzen. She is them, ever hopeful, in love, a girl, even if for as brief a moment as a single flap of the humminbird.

Chairoscuro

Standing on the foyer, I see her; smack! a jolt of lightining hits me ...


I sense this eradicable demeanour engulfing me with its idea of brevity and economy, such was her face, her body conjoined with slender cylinder called limbs.



I move towards the sea of people surrounding her , darkness , smug admist the light contoured texture giving the illusion of volumn ; her.

Then it happened.

I rise up and came close to her , not noticing the smog that had englufed her as she stepped out of the gallery in the thick winter of the night.

Cars marauding by, amidst hapless people. Greys all around , shades of them, and her; still, in the middle of the painting, radiating light. Light and dark playing games with each other, vying to define the negative and positive spaces , the war happening between them while creating a despicably beautifull motif of an imagery.

That I came close to her to look to her in the eyes, those eyes that had till now had become sick and tired of the mindlessness around her begged me, I.... a stranger knew them. She had to go .. the grave injustice had to be resolved or it would grow like a cancer . One could easily question the notion of god for sending her here in this space of indolent ardour and her, a deep meloncholy.

As much as one look that I took the next moment my knife was rupturing the skin that her stomach wore. One deep slash and it was done. Written in stone.

Life oozing out, it was not her body but her head that contained all the life. The granite pavement was looking even greyer for one could contrast the red with its sterile shade.

In that deep incognito embracement, I knew I had found her , where noone else could reach.

The great tension resolved as she smilingly closed her eyes.